


Parallel Lives

by melanie1982



Category: various - Fandom
Genre: Experimental, Other, crossovers, mashups, randomfandoms, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-04-24 16:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19176937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melanie1982/pseuds/melanie1982
Summary: I like imagining what would happen if various characters from different universes ran into one another. This may fail horribly.The plan is to do one chapter for each crossover/mashup - not a full story.still in progress





	1. Chapter 1

She comes to by degrees, not yet ready to try to open her eyes. Her wrists are bound; the rope (she assumes it's rope) is smooth, does not chafe, which is odd. The chair beneath her is cushioned or padded, conforming to the shape of her ass, which is currently numb. That tells her she's been in the same position for hours, if not longer; time seems fuzzy, distorted, and she tries to piece together her last moments of clarity, whatever led up to her capture.

Taking a deep breath, the woman ventures a peek, and rapidly blinks at the blinding daylight streaming in through a slow-moving ventilation fan. The building is bare-bones, a shell, possibly a factory fallen into disuse. At first, she thinks she is alone, but soon, a slight movement catches her attention. A lone figure is seated in the steel girders, and as she watches, the figure begins an acrobatic descent on what appears to be a chain of magician's handkerchiefs. A sound reaches her ears, and she struggles to identify it. "Is that.. a calliope?," she wonders.

There's no more time to contemplate. A man is standing before her, dressed in a onesie with pompom buttons down the front and hidden behind a cheap drugstore clown mask with attached wig. The visual effect is disturbing; she's never liked clowns. Not a phobia, per se, but, well, they aren't funny, are they? They're sad, almost tragic. Everyone laughs at, rather than with them, but it's not true laughter. There's no joy in it. She wonders what this clown wants, and whether it will laugh at her before this ordeal is over.

The figure circles her slowly, and she can't read their assessment of her because of the mask. She feels fingers threading through her hair, examining it tenderly, then giving a sharp tug -

A man's voice offers a rebuke from somewhere behind the pair. "Now, now, Harley; play nice."

The hand disentangles itself. That voice sounds familiar, and yet she can't imagine why. Whatever she was drugged with must be distorting her memory, or maybe it's withdrawal from her bipolar medication that's behind it. She runs through all of her cases in her mind, trying to identify the man, trying to figure out why her body is reacting to him with a mixture of longing and fear.

"But Puddin', you said I could - "

Footsteps approach, and the sound of fabric being ripped makes her wince. The voice speaks again.

"Take off the mask, honey. Show the world how pretty you are."

The mask falls to the floor, along with the shredded onesie. A woman moves into view, now dressed in a dangerously short skirt, tight white crop-top, and garish make-up. Suddenly the mask doesn't seem like such a bad idea. That voice is doing something to her, crawling deep down inside a primal part of her and looking for a place to nest. The sound of the two of them kissing elicits a visceral response in the captive.

A moment later, the owner of the voice looms over her, with the lady-clown now directly to his left, leaning a head on his shoulder. "Hello, Angela. It's been a long time."

She stares at him. Is this all some horrible mistake? Did they kidnap the wrong woman? 

"What did you just call me?"

The grin widens, impossibly. "Oh, Angie, Angie, Angie... Did you think you could just leave me behind? Just dye your hair, reinvent yourself.." He looked at her with contempt, almost bordering on horror. "The suits.. The no-nonsense shoes.. The government job.."

This was insane. These.. people, were clearly delusional. Never had she ever gone by Angela as a cover; there had to be some way out of this. Looking at the two of them, she decided to break every rule in the book. She decided to tell the truth.

"My name is Carrie. I don't know who you are, or why I'm here, but I DO know that, right now, hundreds of highly-trained, heavily-armed agents are looking for me. There's no way for this to end well, so please just - "

But he was saying that name over and over in a demented, sing-song voice. "Angela.. Angela.. Angela.. Angela.."

Carrie tried again. If she was going to die, what did it matter if her cover was blown? "Whatever you think you know about me, you're wrong. Your only chance of getting out of this building alive is if you let me go. NOW."

Why did she sound so whiny? Why was her voice breaking like some angsty teenager?

"I'm bored," said Harley. 

The Joker shook his head with a sad laugh. "When my baby gets bored, she likes to cause trouble."

To emphasize the point, Harley walked over to a crate, leaning over indecently to retrieve a baseball bat and a cartoonish mallet, enjoying the weight of them in her hands, considering which one felt more suited to the moment.

Carrie blanched. "I..I.." 

"Try to remember, Angela." The Joker approached the crate, retrieving an old guitar. As he strummed a few chords, Carrie felt every hair on her body stand on end. The guitar competed with the distant calliope, then harmonized with it. She knew this tune. Why did she know this tune?

"She's my shelter from the storm, she's a place to rest my head. Late at night, she keeps me safe and warm. I call her Red. Yeah, yeah, yeah.."

He was singing, mockingly, but there was real pain beneath it. Carrie squirmed within her restraints, which she now knew must be handkerchiefs; they were so soft against her skin, as though he didn't really want to cause her physical pain - or was undecided.

"Who ARE you? Why do I - why does - GOD!!!"

Harley was idly swinging her bat, having discarded the mallet, all while trying to look disinterested. In her eyes, though, there was malice. No; not just malice. Jealousy.

"You loved that song, Angela. You loved everything about me back then: my pretty face, my messy hair.." The Joker smashed the guitar on the concrete floor, and it died with a groan. He positioned himself near a weight-bearing pillar. "The way I leaned.." 

As his body rested against the concrete, Carrie let out a strangled cry. Memories were threatening to surface, and she knew it wasn't from any drug she'd been given. 

Harley laughed cruelly. "It's been a while since I had a new psych patient. This'll be fun."

Carrie - was that even her name? - began to feel real fear, but it was from within herself. "What are you going to do?"

The Joker knelt down to her level, and she could see it in his eyes - the hatred, yes, but also, a wanting. "We're going to do some.. recovered memory work. Find out what's happened to my sweet Angela. Extract her from that pretty little blonde coconut of yours." He knocked gently on her skull for emphasis. 

Harley took a step closer. "Whatever my baby wants," she said.

Carrie wanted to remember. She NEEDED to remember. Perhaps her bipolar disorder was worse than she realized, or perhaps she wasn't *just* bipolar. A personality disorder? Repressed memories? Schizophrenia? What if she'd been an experiment, plucked from a normal life and reprogrammed with a new identity, a false back-story, easy to control..

The damned calliope continued to play, and Angela - she'd call herself that if it meant surviving; she'd call herself that because some part of her said it was correct and real and RIGHT - felt a glimmer of hope that they didn't plan to kill her. She felt that there was a chance her cover wasn't blown, or that these two didn't care about her casework. If this was personal, then her work might not be compromised.

"Now.. The good Doctor here will tell you, psychoanalysis can be.. painful."

Harley nodded gleefully. "Yep."

"But I'm sure, with your cooperation, things will go.. smoothly."

He caressed her cheek, and Angela - for it must be Angela - leaned into that touch, even as she braced for a following blow. The blow did not come, but the threat, its potentiality, hung heavy in the air around her. For every pleasure, there would be pain; for every lie exposed, there would be the scar its extraction left behind.

"What - what is your.. I mean, do I call you.. ?," Angela stammered, then gave up, thwarted by her confusing emotions.

He seemed surprised, as though he hadn't yet considered this aspect of their interactions. He wouldn't ask to be called 'Puddin', wouldn't diminish Harley's status that way - at least, not yet. He'd spent years building up his new identity as the Joker, erasing his past as the Red Hood, but it was finally time to say it aloud, the name he'd run from for so long, the one he'd never even shared with Harley.

"They call me the Joker," he said, and Angela saw in him that clown-sadness. "But you.. You may call me.. Jordan."

She had spent years pursuing the truth about others, using secrets and lies in the process - for when it came down to national security, the ends justified the means. This, however, was different. This was about her life, her very identity, and she would answer to no one. She no longer knew who she could trust; trusting a pair of demented clowns made as much sense as anything else.

"Jordan," she repeated. It felt forbidden, yet freeing. He was Jordan. She was Angela. This was truth. 

The three of them were about to disrupt entire universes in ways the world couldn't begin to imagine.


	2. Mirror Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione meets Belle
> 
> Because alternate/parallel universes would fit right in with Hogwarts canon

Belle loved being married to Adam, and they ran the kingdom as (more or less) equals..

Still, a part of her wished she'd had more adventures before settling down.

Surely, even the happiest of fairytale folk wondered about a different life, the 'what-ifs' that helped to fill the daily tedium, the daydreams of paths not chosen?

The immense library was certainly a solace when Belle became wistful or melancholy. At least through reading, she could explore other worlds, other options for what a body could do with their life.

Initially, she'd been reading the books alphabetically by author, but then Belle had decided to have the books rearranged chronologically, reading the oldest books first. These had to be perused with care, using special gloves for the turning of the pages, as well as keeping the light to a minimum to avoid fading. It was easy to get lost for hours in the ancient texts, with their ornate hand-painted illustrations and beautiful fonts. On one particular day, however, Belle was dismayed to find that the last few pages of her latest selection were missing.

The keeper of the library, Rainier (whom Belle vaguely recalled as having been a lovely wing-backed chair prior to the breaking of the curse), helped Belle search the shelves and nooks for the missing leaves, but to no avail. Belle soon realized that the missing portion of the book was a challenge to be overcome, and that the challenge was a new adventure to undertake at once. Contacting the booksellers in the nearest kingdoms turned up no leads, but a merchant three dukedoms to the west asserted that he, indeed, had the lost pages Belle was looking for. An invitation was extended for the seller to visit the castle, with the dual purpose of attempting to broker a sale and relieving boredom. Now, there was only to wait.

The whole castle seemed to be holding its breath as the day approached. By Belle's calculations, the journey would be six days' travel if overnight stops were foregone, and eight to ten days if the travelling party opted to stay in local villages en route. To her initial consternation and eventual delight, Belle's math proved incorrect, and the visitor's arrival was announced on the fifth day since her receipt of the last letter. 

It was a calm, fine day in their part of the world; no omens of weather or odd animal behavior deigned to indicate that anything out of the ordinary was about to occur. Adam was away, attending to matters of the people, believing there would be time enough to arrive home before their guest, but no matter - Belle was quite capable of hosting their visitor.

As the old coach rumbled up the castle drive, Belle wondered at the odds of finding the very thing she needed in all the world after expending so little effort. Having already once found what she needed without looking (beloved Adam), was she now to be fortunate enough to repeat such completion?

Cogsworth was, as ever, cautious. "Please bear in mind, Madame, that we do not know this person at all, and that intentions expressed in words must be proven by right actions, or they are worthless."

Lumiere, too, was serious for a moment. "Cogsworth is right. We do not know this man; supposing his intentions are less than honourable?"

She smiled at her old friends. "I seem to recall that the last time a stranger showed up here uninvited, things worked out rather well - wouldn't you say so, gentlemen?"

The pair at least had the decency to blush, and let the matter drop.

The coach door opened, and out stepped a figure slight of frame and draped in a hooded cloak. Belle could not fathom why, but the figure seemed.. familiar to her in some way. The cloak was deep red, and should have been beautiful in the sunlight, yet it seemed to almost absorb all light. The garment was unnaturally still, given the breeze and the natural tendency of hanging fabric to sway slightly. The visitor's feet were not visible, and Belle almost fancied that the wearer of the cloak was hovering inches above the ground.

"Welcome, bookseller," Belle intoned, hoping her voice did not betray her trepidation at the stranger. "Please, come in. I trust your journey was a pleasant one?"

As the entourage passed through the entryway, Cogsworth offered to take the gentleman's cloak. As the garment was removed, Lumiere stifled a gasp. A mane of luminescent hair tumbled forth, unbound and almost shockingly fair. The face was that of a young boy, not the man Belle had assumed, although the delicate features - hazel eyes, rosebud lips, high cheekbones - would have been equally striking on a woman. Belle peered over the guest's shoulder, wondering if a father or grandfather was to follow; surely one so young would not be in trade for himself, and traveling so far, alone!..

"My journey, Madame, was.. pleasant." He seemed to struggle for the word, and Belle wasn't sure what to make of the situation. 

Remembering her manners, Belle began to make a verbal offer of refreshments, but the merchant shook his head no. "I'm afraid I can't stay long. I must get back as soon as possible; there is much to do." As an afterthought, almost as if speaking to himself alone, he added, "There is always much to do."

Belle, while somewhat disappointed, was also mildly relieved, as the newcomer's presence, and indeed his very voice, unsettled her in ways she did not understand.

"Very well. You.. You have the goods I requested?"

Cogsworth's mouth turned down so sharply at the corners, it reminded Belle of his days as a clock, when the hour and minute hands achieved much the same effect. She knew she was being crass, but, well, the merchant was to leave shortly, so a quick sale seemed the best course of action.

The young man seemed to become aware of the gentlemen on either side of him. "I do not usually conduct business of such a delicate nature in the presence of.. others. Would it be possible to speak with you alone?"

He had almost said 'help,' or 'servants,' or 'staff;' they were sure of it. However, the last-minute use of 'others' had saved him from wrath, and the phrasing 'would it be possible' omitted the need to ask whether or not it would be proper. It most certainly would not - but Belle was in need of the item in question, and the victory was at hand.

"Yes, of course. Lumiere, Cogsworth, please leave us for a moment, while we discuss business."

The lady of the house was now quite alone with the stranger. For a fleeting moment, Belle wished that some of the ordinary objects of the room were still in their disguised, accursed state, ready to come to her aid if need be. She told herself to stop thinking the worst.

"Madame," he began, and she felt that slight inner jolt of rebellion within her - Belle was still acclimating to being 'madame' and no longer 'mademoiselle;' "I do have the item you require. However, I must warn you about its powers, and there isn't much time."

Warn her? Powers? Oh, dear. Belle began to have flashbacks of enchanted objects, but these were cut short as she realized that this newcomer had spoken to her of magic without the slightest hesitation or fear that she would think him a fool.

"Powers?," she forced her lips to say.

"Yes. The book, once complete, will be quite magical, and magic can have - does have - consequences."

Belle followed the man's eyes as he surveyed the room, and it seemed as though he could sense it, somehow, the faint glimmers of the spell which caught her eye at odd moments, particularly upon awakening. They manifested at seemingly random intervals throughout the day, too, as if reminding Belle just how quickly her life, her world, could be transformed. She pondered, not for the first time, what her life might have been, had the spell not been broken. Yes; magic did, indeed, have consequences.

He looked at her intently, as though he could read her. "Are you happy, Belle?"

Belle had to grip the back of a chair, feeling suddenly dizzy. Of all the things he could have said: horrid descriptions of what might happen should the book be misused, or some lascivious patter, or a random string of nonsense words - that question was more shocking than the rest of the options put together.

She chose her words carefully. The castle seemed to be tilting slightly, or perhaps swaying, but Belle steadied herself. "I am happy. I wonder, at times, if this.. This life.."

"Is all there is?," he articulated, and Belle nodded, pursing her lips in guilt.

The man removed the missing pages from a hidden sleeve within his cloak. Such thin, flimsy pieces of parchment, and yet they held the weight of her soul.

"These are yours, madame," he went on. "You need them more than I. I see that now."

Belle blanched. "I can't possibly take them without payment; you've - you've come all this way, and, well, your livelihood - "

"It is of little consequence," he said cryptically, and, she sensed, sadly. "My true work has nothing to do with the selling of books. But your work.. Your work could be significant. You have seen magic, the good it can do, as well as the harm. You have learned the difficult way that things aren't always what they seem. You are someone who could be of great use to the world of magic."

Belle was astonished, and, alarmingly, thrilled. "Magic? Me?"

The pages were warm in her hand, supple and almost alive. They fitted against her palm like a cat curling into a beloved owner's lap.

"Use them well. There are worlds beyond these walls, madame, worlds you can't begin to imagine, and many of them are neither described by, nor contained within, books - even so vast and fine a collection as this."

He bowed, and Belle found herself making a demure curtsey almost reflexively.

With a smile akin to mischief, he added, "Then again, some of those worlds are, most assuredly, in books."

Belle couldn't seem to gather her wits, as if he'd cast a spell. By the time she found her voice again, to demand more information, or to offer thanks, or to inquire as to his name, he was gone. Only the presence of the pages, and the worried, rushed entrance of her friends, told her the visit had occurred at all.

Lumiere, attempting to lighten the mood and restore some sense of normalcy, spoke first. "He did not overcharge you, did he?"

She shook her head to dismiss the notion. "He did not. I only wonder what the cost might be in the future, my friends," said Belle.

\-----------------------------------

Hermione had laid the pages across the top of her desk, almost like a tarot spread. She was tired of being overshadowed by her friends, Harry in particular; it was high time that she set out on her own adventures. 

The book had been a textbook at Hogwarts several generations ago, now fallen into disuse as newer, more user-friendly versions had been churned out. Hermione preferred the archaic language, the decorative fonts, the romance of the ancient ways. In most respects, Hermione prided herself on being a liberal thinker and a very modern wizard, but there was a part of her, however small, which longed for a sweeping fairy tale in a land far from the world she knew.

Finding the first few pages had been a struggle; the binding, worn soft with use, had begun to fray, and, well, children, even magickal ones, weren't always careful with things. It had taken much surreptitious detective work and a little skullduggery, but at long last, the young woman had the beginning lines of the spell she needed. 

Her male friends were dear to her, but it wouldn't be such a terrible thing to have a female companion and confidante once in a while. A girl who moved in other circles seemed a safer bet - no catty competition, no romantic rivalries, etc. This was a spell designed to open the user to another world, and to conjure up a like-minded individual, a kindred spirit, as it were.

Gathering her wits along with the incomplete book and loose pages, Hermione began to intone the old words, feeling a shift in the energy of the room as she approached the mirror.

Meanwhile, in a castle far, far away, Belle was finally ready to see if there was someone out there to whom she could relate, a friend with whom to exchange ideas and experiences. Pushing aside her natural reticence around mirrors (particularly ones in this castle), Belle spoke the words from the book as she walked towards the glass. A hazy mist filled the frame, and as it cleared, Belle felt a sinking disappointment, fearing the spell had not worked - for the face staring back at her was very much her own.

Until the face blinked, while Belle herself remained still.

Immediately afterwards, two identical startled screams pierced their respective nights in separate worlds.

\----------------------------------

Hermione touched the glass, feeling it give way. Belle, seeing the hand that was offered to her, grabbed hold of it before she could change her mind. With a slight pop, the visitor made her way into the room.

"You.. You look so much like me," the wizard breathed.

"I was going to say that YOU look so much like ME," Belle countered. Hermione could sense that, despite her rather old-fashioned and conventionally-feminine attire, this new acquaintance had brains and spirit, and liked her immediately.

"Hermione Granger," she offered, extending her hand in greeting.

Belle, confused, gave a curtsey. "Belle. It's nice to meet you, Hermione."

It was awkward at first, talking to one's self, but soon, seated in two comfortable chairs, the two women were chatting easily like old friends.

Hermione, with a glint in her eye, pondered aloud at the chaos which would ensue should she and Belle ever decide to switch places for a day.

Belle agreed that, from what little she'd heard of Hermione's life, it would, indeed, make for a shocking and potentially dangerous adventure.

"And from what I've heard of your life, Belle, switching for the day would definitely shake things up around here."

Perhaps they would dare, and perhaps they wouldn't. Hermione sensed that Belle had potential, and possibly even some magickal heritage within her. There were so many adventures awaiting them, and the world seemed both endless and yet intimately smaller and cozier at the same time.

"Shall we, Belle?"

Hermione had interrupted, but Belle didn't bat an eye. "Shall we what, Hermione?"

The wizard glanced at the mirror, then at Belle. "Shall we go?"

Belle could not recall the last time Adam, or anyone, for that matter, had asked her to go anywhere beyond the castle grounds. The idea was dangerous, perhaps insane, and more than a bit delicious.

'Go'? They could end up anywhere! Anything could befall them, and all the while, their respective friends and loved ones would be oblivious to their situation.

Belle made a decision.

She picked up her copy of the book, the one which had opened this door. Hermione produced her own copy from her travelling cloak. Both women noticed, with only mild surprise, that the pages seemed to have fused back into their bindings, and the wear and tear of age were no longer visible. 

'Consequences,' a small voice seemed to whisper in each woman's mind. They paid this no heed.

"Let's."

Belle reached for Hermione's hand, which fitted perfectly into her own. 

They approached the glass as equals.

"Mirror mirror," they began, as the surface rippled and shimmered.

In a flash, they were gone.


	3. What the Dickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dana Scully has been doing some past-life regression therapy - partly out of morbid curiosity, and partly (okay, mostly) out of obligation in relation to a recent X File.
> 
> She starts to recall things - snapshots of a life prior to this one.
> 
> Poppycock. There's no such thing as reincarnation...
> 
> Right?

During the initial session, Scully had wished that Mulder had been assigned this extra homework, too. Then again, it was probably easier to be open with the hypno-therapist without Mulder there to influence her in any way. He would have his own sessions; they couldn't do *everything* together.

The next two sessions had yielded little recall - mostly vague, fuzzy feelings of a primitive existence: the heat of the sun, the freezing cold of night, the coarse furs she wore against her skin. It had seemed to Scully that she was a 'he' in that incarnation, but the lack of detail, coupled with her skepticism of the exercise, led Scully to conclude that it was simply the product of an over-tired mind, or her subconscious' symbolic representation of all the immature, backwards-thinking men she'd dealt with in her life. Ugh ugh. In that life, she met her end when she fell off of a cliff while hunting what appeared to be a mastodon.

By the fourth session, however, Scully had found herself relaxing on cue. Her body responded to the therapist's voice, her limbs becoming loose and pleasantly heavy. This time, rather than fretting that she wouldn't 'see' anything (or, conversely, worrying that she would), Dana felt her mind let go. With an audible *pop*, Scully's brain became a blank screen, and it was then that the most detailed visions began to play out.

Scully was dressed in rich fabrics, her hair carefully pulled into an elegant, old-fashioned chignon. To her right were several large windows, filled with a cold, gray light. To her left, an older man sat poring over documents, rustling them, shuffling them, and periodically muttering, "Absolute poppycock," or, "The very NERVE!"

Scully felt a prickle of recognition at the man's voice. His accent and his cadence were so familiar; she could well imagine him speaking terms of subdued endearment to her, and felt a mixture of pity and mild distaste at the notion.

She turned, feeling the weight of her skirts as she did so, the way every garment upon her person was designed to encourage frailty and idleness, rather than comfort or ease of movement. Her entire body was tense, and Scully sensed that this had been the case for years, perhaps even her entire life. Perspective shifted, as though Dana popped in and out of the woman's body, in order to be able to see herself as well as her surroundings.

A second man entered the room, and Scully felt absolute revulsion, tinged with fear. It was as though the newcomer embodied every snake, spider and scorpion on God's green earth, all lumped into leathered skin and stitched into a dark suit with a funereal air. He seemed to look into her, daring her to demonstrate any objection to his presence, at which time he would utter secrets meant to destroy her and all that she had so carefully cultivated.

As Dana glanced again at the seated man, the woman of the past's thoughts came through so clearly: "I am a fraud. I have deceived him, and one day, I shall be exposed."

Scully wanted to awaken, to surface from this painful vision, but she could no longer hear the therapist. Her mind had taken over, and Dana panicked that she would be stuck in this time, this life, for the long term. She could not bear it - not again.

Again?

She felt faint. Her tapered fingers pressed against the spotless glass of the window, cold and clear. The feeling of the house closing in on her seemed to abate, if only for a moment. She would not go back. Still; the sense that there was something she must change, something she must accomplish in order to leave this existence and never deal with these hateful feelings again, was bearing down on her soul. 

The besuited rat was addressing her. "Lady Dedlock?"

Scully felt her blood chill in her veins as she turned to acknowledge the visitor. Her lips moved to form a reply, but the dream was snatched away, and she was merely Dana once more, laid out on a therapist's couch. The therapist was peering at her closely, a look of deep concern etched upon her face.

"Are you alright? I was about to try to rouse you; you quit making verbal responses to my prompts several minutes ago.."

Dana tried for levity. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to alarm you. I.. I must've fallen asleep."

The therapist, skeptical, nevertheless accepted this explanation.

Dana accepted a copy of a CD designed to help patients guide themselves through their own regressions. Perhaps at home, in familiar surroundings, Scully would be more adept at navigating and controlling her imagination.

The sadness of Lady Dedlock had seemed so real, but Scully wasn't ready to concede yet. In the interest of science, she'd explore further on her own, but that was all; that was all...

\--------------------------------------------

Dana began to keep a diary of the sessions. Immediately upon surfacing from her reverie, she would write down frantic notes of what she'd seen, heard, and, most of all, felt. Slipping into that other world had become nearly effortless, and the copious notes soon filled the first half of her diary. Scully knew there was something there, something she had to puzzle out before she could leave that 'life' behind her.

Mulder did not pry, though he did offer to help. She told him little pieces of it, but some of the emotions the sessions stirred up could not be put into words.

"What if," he said, taking a moment to form the question correctly, "the thing that keeps pulling you back into that time is not an object or a lesson, but a person?"

She stared at Mulder, letting those words resonate within her. "Someone I need to find in this life?"

He took a sip of his coffee. "Maybe."

There were brief moments now in which Scully would swear she was teetering on the periphery of that other world during waking hours. An object would glint in the light, or a sound would distract her, and 'her' reaction would be like the other woman's. Such an occurrence transpired then, as she sat there in a greasy-spoon, drinking bad coffee with her partner and friend. Part of her wondered what on earth she was doing dressed like this, sitting in public with a man not her husband..

Dana needed to change the subject. "So what about you? What, uh, past lives have you uncovered, Mulder?"

He smiled. "You don't really want to hear about mine, do you?"

"Of course I do. Just.. Pick one. Make it a good one."

Mulder tapped his chin. "Okay. So there's some weird 'memories' of being a journalist on a road trip with a beautiful girl, visiting the sites of infamous serial murders..."

Scully allowed herself to get lost in someone else's delusions for a while. Despite the gruesome nature of it, it was a welcome change. 

\-----------------------------------

Dana had set herself a deadline of sorts: If she hadn't found any closure or answers by the time the diary was full, she would give up on the quest. She had already more than fulfilled her required number of research hours, and her safety and sanity had to take precedence over her curiosity.

With only a handful of blank pages left to fill, Scully knew this would likely be the last session. Better make the most of it.

"Come on, Lady," she muttered, settling herself into a comfortable reclined position as the CD began to play.

\------------------------------------

She was the same woman, only, younger. Scully looked down, astonished to see that she was heavily pregnant. The first pangs of labor made her double over. Looking around her, gasping for breath, she saw that she was outdoors. This was not the well-kept landscape of her previous visions, and she was utterly alone.

A sharp bark of rebuke came from somewhere behind her. "Honoria!"

Scully felt the pain, the adrenaline, the desperate urge to flee. Her hour had come.

"Honoria, you must come inside at once!"

The woman - her sister, she realized, both in that life, and in this.

Scully was so ashamed of herself, but being confined to the house for so many months had nearly driven her mad. She just needed some time, some air, some - 

"Honoria?"

Her sister - her SISTER! - crouched down beside her now, her face pale. "Is it - the baby?"

Honoria moaned. Scully, in her daze, mirrored the sound.

Somehow, haltingly, the pair made it indoors and to the bedroom on the ground floor. Suddenly, the vision shifted, and Scully realized that the images had been the woman's memories. Lady Dedlock - Honoria - had been rehashing her greatest secret while waiting to die.

Scully opened her eyes as Lady Dedlock, looking at the grave of her former fiancé. Her husband had loved her, but he could never accept her now, never truly understand..

She had loved only once in that depth and sensitivity, and that man was now dead. Her husband would be better off without her.

"I have betrayed him."

Did Honoria mean she'd betrayed her lover, or her husband?

"I don't deserve to live. I don't deserve to be loved.."

The grave was modest, but it was something solid, something to focus on. So cold..

"I am coming, James.."

This was her ultimate fate, to turn to stone. She'd been working towards this moment for years, hoping to hold on until her kind husband passed away. Honoria had wanted to give him that - a sweet, bland, respectable married life with her, and a gentle death in his old age. She had failed at this, just as she had failed to hold on to James, or their daughter - 

In Honoria's mind, Scully saw Captain James Hawdon as he must have been in his youth. Her heart ached for him, and she moaned again, bereft of the life he had sparked within her.

"Mulder.."

Scully jolted out of her altered state as though she'd just crash-landed back into her own body. The CD was skipping, making a god-awful noise over and over at high speed while the LCD flashed random, nonsensical forms.

Dana pinched herself, finding she was quite awake now. A dream within a dream; how unexpected.

As she lurched towards the bathroom to splash water on her face, Dana hazarded a glance in the mirror. She looked so shaken, and so unutterably sad.

"I think I figured out what kept me going back to that lifetime," she spoke to her double. "Thank you, Honoria."

Mulder loved multi-verse theories. To be honest, they gave Dana a headache, but in that moment, his theories made some kind of sense. Maybe *she* was Honoria in another dimension, right then; maybe she'd been Honoria in a past life; maybe she'd imagined it all.. Regardless of the exact mechanics of it, Scully had found her answers in a most unorthodox way.

She was ready to take on the reincarnation X File. She was ready to seize this life by the balls. She had enough fantastical notes to turn into a novel, should she so choose. 

"Now, let's just hope that 'James' can find his way back to the love we left unfinished.." 

-end


End file.
